Sir Harry Hotspur of Humblethwaite

SIR HARRY HOTSPUR OF HUMBLETHWAITE

“I know what you said at the waterfall, Emily.”

“What I said then I said for always. You may be sure of that. I told Mamma so, and Papa. If they had not wanted me to love you, they should not have asked you to come here. I do love you, and I hope that some day I may be your wife.”

She was not leaning on his arm, but as she spoke she stopped, and looked stedfastly into his face. He put out his hand as though to take hers; but she shook her head, refusing it. “No, George; come on. I want to talk to you a great deal. I want to say ever so much, — now, to-day. I hope that some day I may be your wife. If I am not, I shall never be any man’s wife.”

“What does some day mean, Emily?” “Ever so long; — years, perhaps.”

“But why? A fellow has to be consulted, you know, as well as yourself. What is the use of waiting? I know Sir Harry thinks I have been very fond of pleasure. How can I better show him how willing I am to give it up than by marrying and settling down at once? I don’t see what’s to be got by waiting?”

Of course she must tell him the truth. She had no idea of keeping back the truth. She loved him with all her heart, and was resolved to marry him; but the dross must first be purged from the gold. “Of course you know, George, that Papa has made objections.”

“I know he did, but that is over now. I am to go and live at Scarrowby at once, and have the shooting. He can’t want me to remain there all by myself.”

“But he does; and so do I.” “Why?”

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In order that he might be made clean by the fire of solitude and the hammer of hard work. She could not quite say this to him. “You know, George, your life has been one of pleasure.”

“I was in the army, — for some years.”

“But you left it, and you took to going to races, and they say that you gambled and are in debt, and you have been reckless. Is not that true, George?”

“It is true.”

“And should you wonder that Papa should be afraid to trust his only child and all his property to one who, — who knows that he has been reckless? But if you can show, for a year or two, that you can give up all WKDW ³

“Wouldn’t it be all given up if we were married?” “Indeed, I hope so. I should break my heart otherwise. But

can you wonder that Papa should wish for some delay and some proof?”

“Two years!”

“Is that much? If I find you doing what he wishes, these two years will be so happy to me! We shall come and see you, and you will come here. I have never liked Scarrowby, because it is not pretty, as this place is; but, oh, how I shall like to go there now! And when you are here, Papa will get to be so fond of you. You will be like a real son to him. Only you must be steady.”

“Steady! by Jove, yes. A fellow will have to be steady at Scarrowby.” The perfume of the cleanliness of the life proposed to him was not sweet to his nostrils.

She did not like this, but she knew that she could not have everything at once. “You must know,” she said, “that there is

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a bargain between me and Papa. I told him that I should tell you everything.”

“Yes; I ought to be told everything.”

“It is he that shall fix the day. He is to do so much, that he has a right to that. I shall never press him, and you must not.”

“Oh, but I shall.”

“It will be of no use; and, George, I won’t let you. I shall scold you if you do. When he thinks that you have learned how to manage the property, and that your mind is set upon that kind of work, and that there are no more races, — mind, and no betting, then, — then he will consent. And I will tell you something more if you would like to hear it.”

“Something pleasant, is it?”

“When he does, and tells me that he is not afraid to give me to you, I shall be the happiest girl in all England. Is that pleasant? — No, George, no; I will not have it.”

“Not give me one kiss?”

“I gave you one when you came, to show you that in truth I loved you. I will give you another when Papa says that everything is right.”

“Not till then?”

“No, George, not till then. But I shall love you just the same. I cannot love you better than I do.”

He had nothing for it but to submit, and was obliged to be content during the remainder of their long walk with talking of his future life at Scarrowby. It was clearly her idea that he should be head-farmer, head-steward, head-accountant, and general workman for the whole place. When he talked about the game, she brought him back to the plough; — so

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at least he declared to himself. And he could elicit no sympathy from her when he reminded her that the nearest meet of hounds was twenty miles and more from Scarrowby. “You can think of other things for a while,” she said. He was obliged to say that he would, but it did seem to him that Scarrowby was a sort of penal servitude to which he was about to be sent with his own concurrence. The scent of the cleanliness was odious to him.

“I don’t know what I shall do there of an evening,” he said. “Read,” she answered; “there are lots of books, and you can always have the magazines. I will send them to you.” It was a very dreary prospect of life for him, but he could not tell her

that it would be absolutely unendurable.

When their walk was over, — a walk which she never could forget, however long might be her life, so earnest had been her purpose, — he was left alone, and took another stroll by himself. How would it suit him? Was it possible? Could the event “come off”? Might it not have been better for him had he allowed his other loving friend to prepare for him the letter to the Baronet, in which Sir Harry’s munificent offer would have been accepted? Let us do him the justice to remember that he was quite incapable of understanding the misery, the utter ruin which that letter would have entailed upon her who loved him so well. He knew nothing of such sufferings as would have been hers — as must be hers, for had she not already fallen haplessly into the pit when she had once allowed herself to fix her heart upon a thing so base as this? It might have been better, he thought, if that letter had been written. A dim dull idea came upon him that he was not fit to be this

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But I feel myself bound in my duty to go further than this, even though it may be at the risk of your displeasure. I presume from what you tell me that you are contemplating a marriage between George Hotspur and your daughter; and I now repeat to you, in the most solemn words that I can use, my assurance that the marriage is one which you should not countenance. Captain Hotspur is not fit to marry your daughter.

When Sir Harry had read so far he had become very angry, but his anger was now directed against his lawyer. Had he not told Mr. Boltby that he had changed his mind; and what business had the lawyer to interfere with him further? But he read the letter on to its bitter HQG

Since you were in London the following facts have become known to me. On the second of last month Mr. George Hotspur met two men, named Walker and Bullbean, in the lodgings of the former, at about nine in the evening, and remained there during the greater part of the night, playing cards. Bullbean is a man well known to the police as a card-sharper. He once moved in the world as a gentleman. His trade is now to tout and find prey for gamblers. Walker is a young man in a low rank of life, who had some money. George Hotspur on that night won between three and four hundred pounds of Walker’s money; and Bullbean, over and above this, got for himself some considerable amount of plunder. Walker is now prepared, and very urgent, to bring the circumstances of this case before a magistrate, having found out, or been informed, that some practice of cheating was used against him; and Bullbean

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is ready to give evidence as to George Hotspur’s foul play. They have hitherto been restrained by Hart, the Jew whom you met. Hart fears that were the whole thing made public, his bills would not be taken up by you.

I think that I know all this to be true. If you conceive that I am acting in a manner inimical to your family, you had better come up to London and put yourself into the hands of some other lawyer. If you can still trust me, I will do the best I can for you. I should recommend you to bring Captain Hotspur with you, — if he will come.

I grieve to write as I have done, but it seems to me that no sacrifice is too great to make with the object of averting the fate to which, as I fear, Miss Hotspur is bringing herself. — My dear Sir Harry Hotspur, I am, very faithfully yours,

-%.

It was a terrible letter! Gradually, as he read it and re-read it, there came upon Sir Harry the feeling that he might owe, that he did owe, that he certainly would owe to Mr. Boltby a very heavy debt of gratitude. Gradually the thin glazing of hope with which he had managed to daub over and partly to hide his own settled convictions as to his cousin’s character fell away, and he saw the man as he had seen him during his interview with Captain Stubber and Mr. Hart. It must be so. Let the consequences be what they might, his daughter must be told. Were she to be killed by the telling, it would be better than that she should be handed over to such a man as this. The misfortune which had come upon them might be the death of him and of her; — but better that than the other.

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He sat in his chair till the gong sounded through the house for prayers; then he rang his bell and sent in word to Lady Elizabeth that she should read them in his absence. When they were over, word was brought that he would breakfast alone, in his own room. On receiving that message, both his wife and daughter went to him; but as yet he could tell them nothing. Tidings had come which would make it necessary that he should go at once to London. As soon as breakfast should be over he would see George Hotspur. They both knew from the tone in which the name was pronounced that the “tidings” were of their nature bad, and that they had reference to the sins of their guest.

“You had better read that letter,” he said as soon as George was in the room. As he spoke his face was towards the fire, and in that position he remained. The letter had been in his hand, and he only half turned round to give it. George read the letter slowly, and when he had got through it, only half understanding the words, but still knowing well the charge which it contained, stood silent, utterly conquered. “I suppose it is true?” said Sir Harry, in a low voice, facing his enemy.

“I did win some money,” said Cousin George. “And you cheated?”

“Oh dear no; — nothing of the sort.”

But his confession was written in his face, and was heard in his voice, and peeped out through every motion of his limbs. He was a cur, and denied the accusation in a currish manner, hardly intended to create belief.

“He must be paid back his money,” said Sir Harry. “I had promised that,” said Cousin George.

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“Has it been your practice, sir, when gambling, to pay back money that you have won? You are a scoundrel, — a heartless scoundrel, — to try and make your way into my house when I had made such liberal offers to buy your absence.” To this Cousin George made no sort of answer. The game was up. And had he not already told himself that it was a game that he should never have attempted to play? “We will leave this house if you please, both of us, at eleven. We will go to town together. The carriage will be ready at eleven. You had better see to the packing of your things, with the servant.”

“Shall I not say a word of adieu to Lady Elizabeth?”

“No, sir! You shall never speak to a female in my house again.”

The two were driven over to Penrith together, and went up to London in the same carriage, Sir Harry paying for all expenses without a word. Sir Harry before he left his house saw his wife for a moment, but he did not see his daughter. “Tell her,” said he, “that it must be, — must be all over.” The decision was told to Emily, but she simply refused to accept it. “It shall not be so,” said she, flashing out. Lady Elizabeth endeavoured to show her that her father had done all he could to further her views — had been ready to sacrifice to her all his own wishes and convictions.

“Why is he so changed? He has heard of some new debt. Of course there are debts. We did not suppose that it could be done all at once, and so easily.” She refused to be comforted, and refused to believe. She sat alone weeping in her own room, and swore, when her mother came to her, that no consideration, no tidings as to George’s past misconduct, should induce

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